


Dance in the dark

by purple_cube



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2668460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_cube/pseuds/purple_cube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss follows her mother and sister to District 4, and trains her mind not to think of Peeta Mellark every time blue eyes meet hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Tumblr drabble request - thank you to the anon who asked for it.

 

 

Having spent so many years reminding myself that each pair of blue eyes I see _don’t_ belong to him, my brain doesn’t even register the moment that he finally does walk back into my life again.

 

“Katniss?”

 

I freeze. Because while I can believe that there are many people in District 4 who share his eye color, his voice will always be one of a kind. I turn slowly, my apprehension only growing as my gaze drifts slowly upward from the ground – to meet the blue eyes that have haunted my dreams for so long. His hair is shorter, cropped closer to the scalp and damp from the summer rain, and his upper body seems sturdier, no doubt a result of the rebuilding work in 12 that Haymitch has told me about. Other than that, he is still the same boy - now very much a  _man_ \- that I see every night beneath my eyelids.

 

Peeta smiles – nervously, it seems to me. “Hi.”

 

“Hi,” I respond reflexively.

 

“How are you?”

 

I don’t know how to reply. _I’m well? Probably better than you, from what I’ve heard?_

 

He seems to recognize my discomfort, and shakes his head a little, as if reprimanding himself. “You look good,” he starts with a vague wave of his hand in my direction. “District 4 really suits you.”

 

It’s my turn to shake my head. “It suits my mother and sister more than it does me.”

 

He nods. “Annie told me that they both work at the hospital.”

 

“Prim is training,” I clarify. “They have a medical college that she was admitted into just this summer.”

 

“You must be proud,” he says with a kind smile.

 

“I am.”

 

A car drives past, sending spray in our direction from beneath its wheels. We both jump back from the curb, and as a passerby glances in our direction, I realize how exposed we both are. Although it’s been a while since the newspapers’ photographers stopped following me around, I don’t want to take any chances.

 

“I live in the next apartment block,” I tell Peeta, with a wave in that direction. “Want to come in for a drink?”

 

He hesitates, but when a woman turns her head to glance at him as she passes, he nods at me. “Sure.”

 

We set a brisk pace, both of our heads angled down and away from the light rain. He lets me lead him up the porch steps and into the building, and we make our way along the narrow hallway in silence.

 

I slide the key into our front door, calling out to see if anyone else is home as soon as it opens. When I receive no response, I turn around to see Peeta closing the door behind his back.

 

“My mother and Prim are both on the evening shift at the hospital. They won’t be home until the early morning.”

 

He glances around me as I speak, taking in our surroundings. “Nice place.”

 

I shrug. “It’s fine for the three of us.”

 

And it is. Because while it could never match the size and grandeur of our home in Victors' Village, the apartment is still twice the size of the house I grew up in.

 

“What are doing here, Peeta?” I finally ask.

 

He looks down at the floor, clearly uncomfortable.

 

But a moment later, he straightens and gives me that dazzling smile, the one that I always knew would win over the Capitol crowd. I haven’t seen it in so many years that I stare at him long after he finishes speaking.

 

“Don’t I even get that drink first?”

 

It’s only when he takes a step closer that I force my eyes away from him and my legs towards the kitchen. “Is tea alright with you?” I call over my shoulder.

 

“Sure.”

 

I studiously ignore him as the water boils, pretending to be engrossed in choosing cups and tea bags. He doesn’t appear to be all that keen to talk either, instead hovering at the far end of the living room, looking at the meagre photographs that my mother has set up on the mantle above the fireplace. There are frames that hold pictures of my father, the Hawthornes, and Finnick.

 

I place the cups down onto the small table with a dull thud, catching Peeta’s attention, and he crosses the room to join me on the couch.

 

“Haymitch tells me that you work in the fishing trade,” he begins. “How do you like it?”

 

“I don’t.”

 

He raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to elaborate.

 

“I’m not qualified for much else,” I say with a shrug. “And President Coin wanted to keep me out of the public eye for the first two years after the war, so by the time I was allowed to take a job, I just took the first one that I found.”

 

He nods in understanding before reaching for his tea. “But it’s better to keep busy, right?”

 

“Keeps the memories at bay,” I say in agreement. I clear my throat before continuing. “Haymitch told me that you’ve been helping with the rebuilding of the district.”

 

“Everyone has,” he tells me. “Everyone’s had to. There was so much to do.”

 

The memory envelops me so quickly that I’m only vaguely aware of my cup dropping to the ground. Smoke seems to fill the room, and there is ash everywhere. Ash that used to be homes and business – but also ash that used to be people. People I killed.

 

It is only when the smoke begins to thin, and the fog lifts, that I realize that his hand is on my lower back. My head is leaning against his shoulder, and we’re rocking gently back and forth.

 

“Shh,” he whispers into my hair. “It’s okay, you’re safe.”

 

“ _They_ weren’t safe,” I sob. “They’re dead because of me.”

 

“No. _No_ ,” Peeta insists. “They died because of Snow. Nobody else.”

 

Despite the three years that have passed since we last saw each other, the effect that he has on me is instantaneous. I can feel my heartbeat slowing, the pounding in my ears diminishing with each breath.

 

“No one blames you,” he continues.

 

“Including you?” I whisper, almost afraid of the answer.

 

“Including me,” he says confidently. “I don’t blame you for anything that happened, Katniss.”

 

He insists that I stay where I am as he cleans up the mess that my spilled tea has made. By the time he returns from wringing out the soaked rag at the sink, I have retrieved the plant book from the mantel.

 

He smiles when he sees it in my lap. “I remember that.”

 

We sit and leaf through the pages together, talking occasionally. When we finish, I summon the courage to tell him about my idea.

 

“I want to start another book. To remember the people that we lost.”

 

He glances at the fireplace, then at Finnick’s photograph. “I have something like that. It started out as part of my therapy, trying to remember my family and my childhood. Then I started adding sketches of my brothers and my parents.” He turns back to me. “And then you.”

 

“Is that why you’re here?” I ask. “Is it part of your therapy?”

 

He shakes his head. “I don’t have regular sessions anymore. I… I could have come to see you years ago. Maybe I should have.”

 

I let the silence linger for a moment before forcing the question from my lips. “Why didn’t you?”

 

“I didn’t know if you’d want me to. I knew that Haymitch talked to you about me, Johanna too. I guess I figured that if you wanted to see me to talk to me, then you would.”

 

“I wasn’t sure how you felt about me,” I try to explain. “I knew that your therapy was going well, and I didn’t want to jeopardize that by showing up on your doorstep.”

 

“You wouldn’t have,” he says softly. “I stopped having _those_ thoughts about you long ago.”

 

“But you still struggle, don’t you?”

 

I know the answer to this already. Haymitch has told me enough about Peeta’s flashbacks to know that getting through each day is even more of a challenge for him than it is for me.

 

“Yeah, I struggle. But we all do. And we’re all still here.”

 

We sit in silence for a little longer before he glances at his watch. “I should go. Annie will be expecting me for dinner.”

 

“You’re staying with her?” I ask, wondering why she didn’t tell me.

 

He nods. “I only decided on the trip yesterday, and didn’t give her a lot of notice.”

 

He talks about Dylan as we approach the door, of how much he looks like Finnick. I can see him preparing to say goodbye as he reaches for the handle, and I find myself blurting out another invitation before he can speak.

 

“Will you come over for dinner tomorrow? Or lunch, if you want to see Prim?”

 

He looks at me in surprise before giving me a soft smile. “Dinner would be great.”

 

*

 

I don’t tell Prim. Or my mother. I don’t know why, but I want to keep Peeta’s presence in 4 a secret for as long as I can. Perhaps it is because they will inevitably ask how I feel about it – how I feel about _him_ – and I don’t have an answer to that question just yet.

 

Which is why I don’t have long to prepare for dinner in the short time between my family leaving for work and Peeta arriving on my doorstep. He doesn’t seem to mind the simple vegetable stew and bread that I have laid on the table, and we tuck into the meal in comfortable silence.

 

It is only after the dishes have been cleared away and we have settled on the couch once more that he digs out a small envelope from the pocket of his jacket.

 

“For you,” he says shyly. “To say thank you for dinner.”

 

I lift the flap to find a dried and pressed flower. But it is only when I slide it onto the side table that I recognize the type.

 

It’s a dandelion.

 

I look across at him curiously, and he flushes under my gaze.

 

“I saw it while I was waiting for the train, and wanted to give you a memento of District 12.”

 

“Do you remember?” I ask softly.

 

“Yeah. I remember you picking one the day after I gave you the bread. And I remember telling you about it when I arrived in 13.”

 

“You kept us alive,” I whisper.

 

“It was one loaf of bread –“

 

“No, not the bread.” I point to the flower. “You giving me the bread was something kind and unexpected. It gave me hope. And the next day, when you looked at me, and when I should have thanked you, I looked away. I looked down, at the ground, and I found a dandelion. And I remembered.”

 

I glance at the mantel, where my father’s photograph sits. And then I glance at the plant book that rests on the side table. “I remembered the plants that my father talked about, the ones that were edible.”

 

“So that was when you started going into the woods?”

 

I nod. We talk a little longer about my hunting and trading days. He laughs when I tell him about my initial, hapless attempts at negotiating with the merchants before finding more success at the Hob. “Once Gale and I teamed up, we had better luck in town.”

 

“How is Gale?” 

 

He seems curious, and I relay the stories that my mother shares from Hazelle’s regular calls. I don’t tell him that I haven’t spoken to Gale myself in almost a year, our friendship fading as his star rose along with Coin’s new government – while mine withered. I don’t tell him that Gale himself suspects Coin of letting off the bombs that maimed the both of us and killed all those Capitol kids and medics from 13. I don’t tell him that Gale thinks that he can bring down Coin’s government from the inside. Or that our last conversation ended when I refused to help.

  
“He seems happy in District 2. The whole family does,” I add.

 

When he gets up to leave, I wonder if he is upset. But he explains that he promised Annie that he would be home earlier that evening.

 

Once he is in the hallway and turns to me, I _have_ to ask. “Will you come back tomorrow night?”

 

He looks surprised – but pleased – by my request. “Sure.”

 

*

 

He arrives early the following night and greets me with a serious expression.

 

“I’m heading back to 12 tomorrow. Haymitch told me that the building materials that we’ve been waiting for arrived from District 7. They’re going to need as many helping hands as they can get.”

 

Disappointment hits me like a wave. Only three days have passed, and yet, he has woven himself into my life as easily as if he had never left.

 

He must be thinking along the same lines, because regret is clear to see when I finally meet his gaze.

 

“I’m sorry. I’ve really enjoyed this… being here with you.”

 

“So have I. And we haven’t tried to kill each other even once,” I add in a vain attempt to lighten the mood.

 

Peeta looks to the ground. “You know I don’t think that way about you anymore.”

 

I hate that my words have hurt him, so I do the only thing I can think of. I step closer and run my hands slowly over his forearms. It is supposed to be comforting – but it isn’t comfort that I see in his eyes when he looks up at me once more.

 

“Katniss…”

 

I take another step, now close enough that our toes are touching. He watches as I move my hands further upward – to his shoulders.

 

And I watch too, mesmerized, as he licks his lips. Just like he used to before he kissed me for the cameras.

 

“There are no cameras here,” I say, more to myself than to him.

 

“I know.”

 

And then he kisses me. Soft and slow – and better than any that we’ve have shared before. Perhaps it’s because I didn’t appreciate him at the time, or because I now know what it’s like to lose him. Either way, I can’t help leaning forward, wanting to breathe him in.

 

Peeta’s hands move to rest on my hips, and when I slip my arms around his neck, he tugs me closer and deepens the kiss. Everything about this feels so familiar, but at the same time, also entirely new. He’s sturdier than I remember, yet softer. I can taste salt on his lips, and wonder dimly if he has spent time by the ocean today.

 

I get so caught up in my observations of him that I don’t even notice that we have moved until my back hits the wall with a dull thud. Peeta presses up against me, and when his hands dip down to my rear, I know exactly what it is that he wants.

 

I trust him to hold me upright as I wrap one leg around his waist, followed quickly by the other.

 

And I know that this is what he wants because we have been here before. A lifetime ago, the night before we entered the Quarter Quell.

 

I wonder if he remembers. And then I wonder if I’ve said that out loud, because he pulls away from me and nods his head.

 

“I remember every second of that night, Katniss,” he says softly. “And I know that it was real.”

 

We had been on the rooftop for the entire day. When it was time to return to our rooms, I had pulled him to one side instead of descending the steps, letting the door click shut before speaking.

 

“This is the last time we’ll be alone,” I had told him. We both knew that our living quarters were far from private. And then I had kissed him, wanting to give him something true, something _real_ , to remember me by.

 

But I had been wrong to think that it would satisfy either of us. It turned out to be a spark, igniting something deep within me, and I had found myself pushing him against the wall – and pressing my body tightly against his.

 

And then he had reversed our positions – and I had found myself as I do now, with my legs folded around him as he rolls his hips against mine.

 

“Is this too fast?” he whispers.

 

_Probably_ , I think. But instead, I simply say, “I’m okay if you are.”

 

His breathy laughter seems to travel through my ear and lodge itself deep within me. “I’m definitely okay.”

 

I start to push back against him, meeting every rotation of his hips with my own. He groans before dipping his head down to partly rest on my shoulder, his hot, ragged breath adding to the moisture rapidly gathering along my neck and collarbone.

 

When I know that I’m close, I tug at the short curls that sweep the top of his spine. Encouraged, he straightens once more, watching me intently as our movements gather speed and intensity.

 

I come with a sharp cry, Peeta’s eyes fixed firmly on mine. I’m only vaguely aware of the way his gyrations become more and more erratic, and a moment later, he screws his eyes shut and cries out too.

 

I climb down as we both struggle for breath. He sets a forearm high against the wall and leans his head against it as I clutch the belt around his pants for support.

 

“This isn’t why I wanted to find you,” he mumbles. “Just so you know.”

 

I laugh. “I know. I don’t doubt that there is a long line of suitors waiting for you in every district.”

 

His face is still hidden from me, but I can see the corner of his lips curl into a smile. “I wouldn’t say that exactly. No one has ever made an impression like you have.”

 

I wonder if I should tell him the same thing. Or that I dream of him almost every night. Or that I’ve picked up the telephone more times than I can count with the intention of calling him over the past three years.

 

But I don’t say any of those things, and a moment later, he mumbles something about needing to clean up as he heads to the bathroom.

 

I use the time to set the table and lay out our dinner. He returns with a shy smile, and we eat in silence, openly watching one another.

 

After, he helps to clear the dishes, and I begin to dread the moment that he tells me it is time for him to leave.

 

Until I decide that I won’t let him say those words. I pull the dishcloth from his hands and throw it onto the counter before reaching for him. He comes willingly, and I catch a grin tugging at his lips as he leans forward to meet me.

 

I have no idea how long we stand there for, wrapped around each other in the middle of the kitchen. But some part of my rational mind is still functioning, because I manage to walk backwards, taking him with me. Stumbling a few times, we make it to the far end of the living room before he pulls away from me.

 

“Katniss?”

 

“My bedroom,” I explain, while I still have the nerve. “It’s at the end of the hallway.”

 

He hesitates, and for the first time, I stop to think that he might not want this. That he might not want me.

 

His conflict seems to end a moment later, and I barely have time to react when he lifts me from my waist. I weave my legs around him as he walks, watching my face all the while with an incredulous expression, as if he can’t quite believe that this is happening.

 

Truth be told, I can’t either.  Until four days ago, the last time we had spoken was the day that I shot an arrow through Snow. Whether by accident or by design, we had managed to avoid each other for the last three years. And now… now all I know is that the hunger that I have only felt once before is back.

 

And only Peeta can quench it.

 

I, at least, have the sense to shut the bedroom door behind us after we stagger through.

 

He sets me down on the floor in the middle of the room – and we look at each other helplessly. Slowly, and without breaking eye contact, I slip the shoes from my feet. Seconds later, Peeta copies me. Next, I lift my shirt over my head. He echoes my actions once more, and we take our fill of each other. His burns mirror my own, and I find myself reaching out to trace them along his torso.

 

When I am satisfied that I will remember them, I unfasten my pants, let them drop to the floor and step out of them. Peeta soon follows. I make my way to the bed, trusting that he will be right behind me. I don’t have to worry, because as I crawl to the head of the mattress and turn around, I find him almost on top of me.

 

His lips are burning hot against my neck. Without the weighty barrier of our outer clothing, his erection presses insistently against me, sending tendrils of pleasure shooting through me. I expect him to begin the rhythm that had sent me over the edge against the living room wall earlier, but instead, he surprises me by slipping to one side until only his leg covers mine.

 

“Can I touch you?” he asks, his voice rough and low.

 

“You already are.”

 

His hand inches across my thigh and settle on top of my underwear. “Can I touch you _here_?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He caresses me with two fingers through the thin fabric, and while it is nice, I know that it isn’t enough. I take his wrist and guide him beneath my panties.

 

He responds eagerly, pushing the pads of his fingers between the lips. _This_ is what I need, and my body lurches at the contact. Encouraged, he sets a demanding pace, and I grab fistfuls of the blanket in an attempt to stay grounded. It doesn’t work – I soon find my back arching as I spiral out of control.

 

My cries echo around the room when I come, mingled with Peeta’s low moans.

 

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he tells me with a sigh.

 

_I wish we had done it sooner_ , I want to say. But wishes and Peeta Mellark have haunted my dreams for so long that I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. Instead, I push him roughly onto his back. His hands hover in the air, his surprise evident. I straddle his stomach, knowing that he can probably feel how wet I am. His erection brushes my rear, and I take the time to give him a mischievous smile before sitting back on my heels and reaching between my legs.

 

I stroke him through his shorts at first, and then remembering how this hadn’t been enough contact for me, I push the waistband down to free him. He feels hard yet smooth, and so incredibly warm. When I glance up, I find him watching me intently, raggedy breaths escaping through an open mouth.

 

I work at the same rhythm for a little while, before quickening the pace without warning. He tilts his head back in pleasure, extending the long line of his throat. I wonder why I have never paid much attention to his throat before. _How have I never noticed those rough contours, enveloped by such smooth skin?_

 

One moan morphs into another as he jerks into my hand, and I tear my attention away from his neck to look down at the warm liquid spilling between my fingers. I wait until the tension leaves his body before finally letting go and slipping out of the bed to retrieve a cloth from the dresser and switch off the light. Dipping beneath the covers, I wipe his torso gently before pulling up his shorts once more. And then I throw the rag to one side and settle against his side, just like I used to all those years ago.

 

The last thought I have before falling asleep is of how much I have missed these arms of his.

 

*

 

I wake in the night, thirsty and hot, half-hidden beneath Peeta. Carefully, I slip out from under him, don my nightclothes and make my way to the kitchen. The rest of the apartment is noiseless as I fill a glass with water. Prim and my mother must be home by now, but I know that they both go straight to bed when they’re on the night shift, Prim especially finding it exhausting. I return to my room undisturbed, and slip beneath the covers once more.

 

My hand brushes Peeta’s thigh. He doesn’t stir, and more through curiosity than anything else, I let my fingers glide over his skin, inching upward. He moves a little then, but his deep breaths tell me that he is still asleep. Feeling brave, I prop myself up on one elbow and caress him more purposefully. He is half-hard, but it only takes a few strokes before I feel him become more and more rigid with every touch.

 

He moans lightly, and I tilt my head to see him watching me through lidded eyes. “Don’t stop,” he whispers.

 

So I don’t. I stroke him, harder and faster with each pass until he wraps a hand around the back of my head and pulls my lips to his. I swallow his groan as I guide him through his orgasm.

 

When he slumps back onto the mattress, I reach for the rag, to clean up. But Peeta has other plans, flipping our bodies and pinning me beneath him.

 

Even with only the pale moonlight to guide my eyes, I can see his smile. “Your turn,” he tells me.

 

*

 

The initial streams of daylight are peaking through the drawn curtains when I next wake. Peeta is on his side, watching me with a small smile.

 

“Good morning,” I whisper.

 

His eyes dip briefly to take in the rest of my body, and I fight the urge to pull the covers up, despite being clothed.

 

“It certainly is,” he murmurs.

 

I move to shove him, but he catches my hand before it reaches his chest and uses it to pull me on top of him. Our bodies echo the positions that they were in last night, and almost instinctively, I find myself grinding down on him.

 

He sighs. “Katniss.”

 

Whether he says my name in warning or in pleasure, I have no idea. All I know is that it spurs me on. I move with desperation far greater than I had felt the night before, perhaps because I know that this is the last time I might see him.

 

Even so, he comes first, jerking up and into me. I start to object when he moves to reverse our positions, but he is undeterred and pins me to the bed once more. The protests die on my lips when his fingers slip beneath the waistband of my nightclothes, moving with confidence against my slick skin.

 

He seems to know before I do that I’m approaching my climax, capturing my mouth to ensure that my muffled cries don’t leave the room. He continues lazily stroking me through my orgasm, and when I move my hand to his in a half-hearted attempt to ask him to stop, he suddenly presses harder.

 

“One more time,” he whispers lowly in my ear.

 

I come with my teeth buried in his shoulder.

 

After, he lies back and pulls me to his chest. We doze for a little longer before he says that he has to leave. I realize that it would probably be best if he were to leave before my mother wakes.

 

“I need to leave for work soon anyway,” I tell him. “They start early at the docks.”

 

I slip out of bed and make my way to the dresser. Through the mirror, I can see Peeta sit up.

 

He doesn’t bother to disguise the fact that he’s watching me as I dress. I shoot him a look after pulling my top down over my stomach – and receive a lazy grin in reply.

 

“You should visit 12,” he says quietly as I slip into a cardigan. A lot’s changed.”

 

I would be lying if I say that I haven’t thought about it. I haven’t _stopped_ thinking about it.

 

But the only word I allow to leave my lips is, “Maybe.”

 

His smile disappears, and he seems unsatisfied by my answer. “Can I call you?”

 

I nod slowly before scanning the room for a pen. Peeta seems to guess at my intentions, as he explains somewhat sheepishly that he already has my number. “Annie gave it to me a couple of years ago, but I wasn’t ready to talk to you. And then when I was, I didn’t know what to say.”

 

I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling, but I’m sure that he sees my amusement regardless. “ _You_ didn’t know what to say?”

 

His mouth twitches, and a moment later, his resolve breaks as he dips his head back and laughs almost to himself.

 

The long, glistening line of his throat catches my attention again. So when he asks once more if he can call, I find myself answering, “Please do.”

 

We share a smile, both of us suddenly shy. I wonder if this is what it would have been like if we had lived different lives, mine without hunger and loss, and his without the abuse of his mother and apathy of his father. And, of course, if we had both lived without the shadow of the Games.

 

He asks if I want to go ahead and check that the way to the front door is clear before he leaves. I do so, relieved to find both my mother’s and Prim’s door firmly closed. Still, Peeta insists on carrying his shoes until we reach the end of the hallway before placing them gently on the floor and sliding the first foot through. I watch, mesmerized, as he ties the shoelace with a double knot. It is only after he finishes and straightens once more, that he smiles softly.

 

“Old habits die hard,” he murmurs.

 

My gaze drops to the floor. “Is that what I am?”

 

I watch as his feet shuffle closer. I feel the way his hands glide gently up my arms, from wrists to shoulders. And I hear the soft sigh that accompanies my whispered name.

 

“You are anything but a habit,” he says before tugging my chin upward and forcing me to look at him. “You’re _fire_ , Katniss. And you set me alight every single time I see you. _And_ you’re ice – you’re a breath of fresh air and unlike anyone I’ve ever met. You’re straightforward with no hidden agenda, and yet, you’re an enigma.”

 

He sighs before laughing quietly. “And you still have no idea, do you? No idea of the effect you have on me.”

 

“Real,” I mutter, earning a lopsided grin from him.

 

“I’d like to get to know you. I want to know the person that you are _now_.”

 

“Call me,” I ask – _plead_ , really. I don’t want this to be it. I don’t want our story to end here.

 

It seems that Peeta doesn’t either, because he smiles before kissing me softly. When he begins to retreat, I follow him and capture his lips for a longer, deeper kiss.

 

We are both breathing hard when we finally pull apart.

 

“You really mean it, don’t you?” he asks, bewilderment creeping into his voice.

 

“I do,” I admit, grateful for the dim light of the early morning. Hopefully he can’t see the depth of my embarrassment.

 

“Then, I’ll call. I promise.”

 

He lingers for another moment before finally reaching for the door and pulling it open. I only realize that I’m holding his hand when he tries to gently withdraw from my grasp. I squeeze my fingers around his for one final time before letting go.

 

He doesn’t get far – only a couple of steps into the hallway – before turning once more, a boyish grin gracing his features. “You like me, real or not real?”

 

I lean my head against the doorjamb, knowing that I can’t stop my lips from curling as I speak. “Real.”

 

 


End file.
